


Transformations

by The_Hybrid



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Death, Fluff and Angst, I'm Bad At Tagging, Kittenlock, Kittens, Long prompt, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Or Is he?, Prompt Fic, Sherlock no more, Tags Contain Spoilers, Thanks to Facebook, Why Did I Write This?, doesnt happen though
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2018-11-18 21:40:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11299386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Hybrid/pseuds/The_Hybrid
Summary: Written for this prompt *contains Spoilers*Sherlock dies, but is immediately reborn as a kitten.(rest in AN because it's long and spoiler-y)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock dies, but is immediately reborn as a kitten. One day John opens the door to Baker Street, a black, fuzzy kitten dashes in and right up the stairs to 221B. When it's let in, it makes a beeline for Sherlock's chair, where it makes itself at home. It immediately behaves like it owns the place, flounders on the couch, sulks when it's bored, drinks John's tea and eats of his food, refuses to eat cat food, shreds the ugliest of John's jumpers, gleefully attacks Mycroft and claws him bloody, drinks all the milk, sneaks down to Mrs. Hudson to beg for pastries, tries to type on John's laptop, is extremely cuddly to John, sheds all over him and wants his attention constantly, tries to scare away any date John tries to bring home, catches mice and tries to store them in the fridge, and basically behaves exactly like Sherlock. How long will it take before John starts suspecting something? How can Sherlock manage to make John understand that it's really him? How can he manage to do experiments when he doesn't have thumbs? And how can he make John take him to crime scenes?"

John hadn't slept. How could he, after all? As he slowly dragged himself up the stairs of 221b, Mrs Hudson came out of her flat, as she often did when she heard slow footsteps on the stairs. It normally meant a sulk from Sherlock, so Mrs Hudson did what she could to prevent it. Imagine her shock when she saw not Sherlock, but John. 

 

“Oh, it's you John dear. Where's Sherlock? Have you two had another argument or something?”

 

“Sherlock’s… He's not… No, not an argument.” John choked out, his voice filled with pain. 

 

“John? What's happened?” Mrs Hudson asked, worry lining her voice and her face. 

 

John turned to look at her. He opened his mouth to speak, but found he couldn't make a sound. His eyes, battle worn, but normally strong, a barrier from the sea of emotion within, were now more of a window. They showed John's ultimate pain, although they were dry. He couldn't cry anymore. Looking directly into Mrs Hudson’s eyes, John finally spoke, with such finality that no one could doubt it was the truth. 

“Sherlock is dead.” John turned around and stalked back upstairs, the admission seemingly hardening John. No longer weighted down with pain. He became Captain Watson, no longer the jumper wearing man who could make another emotionless man smile and laugh, but the strong man who knew the horrors of the world and who had experienced them first hand. 

 

John Watson had survived so much. Years of PTSD. Wars, many of them. Murderers and psychopaths. A wife who nearly killed his best friend. A daughter who was taken away from him because he was “too unstable”. But John Watson couldn't survive this. He was much too tired now. His family had been taken, but he stayed strong. Until now. 

  
Now Sherlock was gone, and so was John Watson. All that remained was Captain Watson, the strong, hard man who walked straight into danger without thinking about it. 


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock remembers the wind. He remembers the look on John's face as he fell. He remembers the sound of the waves. He remembers them crushing him, forcing the air out of his body, and with it, his life. 

 

He remembers the peace. For the first time in his life, his brain was quiet. Quiet, but peaceful. Not the constant shout of his thoughts during a case or while he was “bored”, nor the dull murmur he called quiet when he was lying on the sofa, a needle and a list in his hands. There was nothing.

 

Many say that when you die your life flashes before your eyes. It doesn't. Sherlock had died so many times he knew that wasn't true. He had always accepted the end, and had therefore accepted his life. He had no regrets, and therefore had no reason to revisit his past in his final moments. He had fully used his life, or what he accounted as what his life was worth to do. He'd taken advantage of all opportunities, he'd saved the people he could, and removed the people he'd needed too. He'd made a difference. He just wish he'd still been there for John, that he'd have had the chance to tell him his real feelings. 

 

But that would never happen now. No, Sherlock knew that. As he fell to the bottom of that river, even as he calculated the likelihood he would survive this (nul. The force of his landing on the water had broken his spine. He was as good as paralysed, and no one would jump off the bridge to save him, they'd surely die themselves), his final thought, the only thing that was running through his brain, was an apology. 

 

_ I'm sorry John, I should be there to help you. _

  
  
  


Imagine his surprise then, when he awoke, shivering, on the side of the Thames. Almost instinctively, he looked around for John. Surely he had to be here? John was always here in moments like this. But alas, John was nowhere to be seen. Sherlock was alone. 

 

Soon, Sherlock began to move. He shook off the water from his skin and slowly made his way home. To Baker Street. To John.

 

It took him a while to realise that he was walking on all fours, and even then, it took being nearly stood on for Sherlock to realise he wasn't himself. Walking up to a window, he was startled by his reflection. His piercing blue eyes remained, but none of the rest of him was himself. His coat seemed to have morphed into a different kind of coat, a layer of black fur that now completely covered his skin. His ears, now on the top of his head, were much more accurate than they ever had been before. His sense of smell had greatly increased as well, due to the whiskers that now accompanied it. And finally, his hands and feet were no longer unique, but now legs and paws.

 

He was a cat. Hold on, no, not a cat, Sherlock realised. He was too small and undeveloped to be a cat. He was a kitten. A kitten. 

 

He had to get back home. He had to do tests. But John. What would John say? How would he convince him that he really was a cat?

  
Sherlock cast these thoughts aside. John was smart, he'd realise soon enough. Besides, John loved cats (Right?!) he'd never throw one out. Not an adorable black little kitten like Sherlock was.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John meets a lovely little kitten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry this took so long. Apparently it's been written for absolute ages, I just haven't posted it. I'm writing the next couple though, so you can all have two for Christmas (in theory)

It had been a week. A whole, miserable week for John since Sherlock had died. In the beginning, Mrs Hudson tried to get him to move, to leave the flat, to do anything except sit, drink, and stare at Sherlock’s chair. Eventually he had have to leave the flat.

 

He had an appointment with his new (thoroughly checked by Mycroft; neither wanted a repeat of Eurus) therapist, and then a 100% controlled and supervised 30 minute meeting with Rosie. So, at 10 am, John left the apartment of 221b Baker Street, leaving his key under the mat. He wasn't expecting to come back. He had nothing to live for now, not even his daughter. He was going to make this meeting his last. He walked out of the door, certain beyond any doubt how his life would end.

 

Something in that meeting made John change his mind. Maybe it was the kind stranger on the train, maybe it was Rosie calling him “Dada”, and reaching for him and crying when he had to leave, maybe it was the little black kitten he walked home with, but something made him change his mind, and he was grateful.

 

As it was, when John got back to thei- _his_ \- flat, he retrieved the key from under the mat, opened his door, and then made an utterly surprised yelp as the little tiny black kitten whooshed straight into the flat, and jumped straight up onto Sherlock’s chair, next to the (not yet lit) fireplace.

 

“Hey. Get down from there. That's Sherlock’s chair. You can't-” John stopped talking. There was no point. Sherlock wasn't here to sit in his chair any more, there was no reason saving it for him. John told himself that was the reason anyway. It certainly wasn't because that black little kitten looked as if it belonged in that chair. And it certainly wasn't because it gave John such a _Sherlock_ look when John started talking, after all, it was just a kitten. “I really do need to name you, if you're staying. I can't keep calling you ‘it’, now, can I?”

 

John walked into the kitchen and began making a singular cup of tea, aware of the little black kitten watching him.


End file.
